Head Trauma (incomplete
by Carl Price
Summary: This is a beta of a story that I am working on. I seem kind of stumped, so I need a little help


The Crow: Head Trauma by Carl Price

-The Present-

  
    " 'Hey hero, you lose.' "  
  
    The darkened man sat in the shadows. The only signs of his existence were his voice, the burning embers of a cigarette and the blinding red of a laser guided sight. A second man lay in the bed, blood from his recently killed lover coating the sheets around him.   
     "Those words ring out to me each time my eyes close. Each time I hear those words, I witness myself and my love dying again.   
     "What happened to us, you ask?   
    "I was the first to go. A bullet to the head. Not too original, I know, but enough to stop a person cold in his tracks. I swear to God that I should have died there and then, but... someone must have been pissed at me in a past life and I got the come around I deserved."   
    The man took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled, the smoke illuminating the laser beam.   
     "I can begin at the beginning, and tell you everything. How I met her, how we fell in love quickly, but that's not why I'm here."   
     The man on the bed looked at him and groaned in pain, reaching for something in the darkness.   
     "What are you doing here then?"   
     The darkened man leaned forward, his features barely visible in the cigarette's glow.   
     "Shut up monster. You took two lives. I'm here to make you pay twice over. You can speak now."   
     "What about the others?"   
     "They're dead."   
     "WHAT?"   
     The man lunged forward and was met with a swift punch in the face.   
     "Sit the fuck down!" the dark man hollered as his adversary collapsed on the bed. He pulled the slide back on the gun and slammed the barrel on the other man's head. A thin line of blood ran onto the bedsheets.   
     He looked up at the darkened man and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.   
     "You're the last of the monsters, Marc," the shadow man whispered, "Gage, Rico... They're all dead. All that is left of this Greek tragedy is you.... You may speak now."   
     "Who are you?" the man on the bed asked in a tear choked voice.   
     "Everyone and no one, Marc," the shadow man answered as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. "To some I am Death. To others, I am Life. To you... I'm your worst fucking nightmare." The man leaned over Marc and brushed his hand down Marc's face.   
     "My love was given only one second to decide her life or mine. You won't be that lucky."   
     The shadowed man placed the barrel of the gun beneath Marc's chin and pulled the trigger.   
     In the brief flash of light before his death, Marc Graves saw the face of his killer. He could make out every detail in the young man's painted face, and he could see deeply into the man's blue eyes, though they were darkened by the faded black paint.   
     The shadowed man stood up and looked down at the man's corpse. He took a drag off the cigarette and walked through the house. He snuffed the cigarette under his heel and walked slowly out of the house.   
     In the moment he stepped out of the house, the night lit up around him. The shadow man clenched his eyes shut and threw his hands up to block the light as the sound of dozens of rounds of ammo being rammed into position rang out.   
     "Put your hands behind your head and get on your knees or we will open fire!"   
     The man looked at the people in front of him- what seemed like an entire police station loaded to the gills with assault gear- and cocked an eyebrow.   
     "Put your hands behind your head and get on the fucking ground!" the officer repeated.   
     Slowly, the shadowed man raised his arms and laced his hands behind his head as he knelt on the ground. Four policemen ran up to him and, after slapping handcuffs around his wrists, hauled him to the waiting, open doors of a cruiser.

-Later-   
     "State your name, for the records," a man said over the intercom.   
     "I told you, I don't know my name," the shadow man replied.   
     "Do you know how old you are?"   
     "No."   
     "Did you kill Marc Anthony Graves?"   
     "Yes but..."   
     "A simple yes will do. Were you involved in the attack on one Lora Bane?"   
     "Yes."   
     "What about the deaths of William 'Gage" Jones and Marshall 'Rico' Jeter? Were you involved in their deaths in any way?"   
     "Yes."   
     "Will you describe, in detail, how these people were killed?"   
     "Gage was ran down with his 1975 Ford Mustang, jet black with double limo tinting, flames airbushed on the hood, license number DZASTER. Rico was killed in a manner that would make sure he didn't get any pussy in Hell-"   
     "How?"   
     "I cut off his tongue and dick, then shot him in the face with a shotgun. There shouldn't be much left..."   
     "You can remember all that, but you can't remember your name or age?"   
     "Some things are inconsequential."   
     "Why did you kill these people?"   
     "Vengeance. Justice. Revenge. Love. Call it what you will."   
     "Are you saying they deserved to die?"   
     "No."   
     "You're not saying that?"   
     "They needed to die. They were already spiritually dead. Their decrepit souls needed release."     "And so you killed them? In hopes of saving them?"   
     "I killed them in hopes of saving myself."   
     "Saving yourself?"   
     "Yes. Saving myself."   
     "From what?"   
     "Eternity without her."   
     "Without who?"   
     "My love."   
     "That's her name?"   
     "No. Her name was Ana Mitchell."   
     The voice over the intercom was muffled, but still audible, "Someone get me background on Ana Mitchell. I want anything and everything, coroner's reports, birthdates, deaths, everything."   
     "Are you finished with me?" the shadow man asked.   
     "No. You stay right there."   
     The shadow man stood up from the table and paced the room. 

  
    The police detective looked at the digital camera installed in the interrogation room and froze the picture at the best possible shot of the shadow man. With a few quick key punches, the detective brought up a second screen and copied the picture to it.   
     "Doc, Sips, you guys c'mere and get a look at this."   
     Jack "Sips" McMartin, a short fat officer that resembled Sipowiscz on NYPD Blue, and Psychological Dr. Rachel Greene, a young woman fresh out of Medical School, walked over to the screen.   
     "What's up Mack? Need help with the computer?"   
     "No," the detective answered, "look at this guy's face."   
     "Almost like it's been painted," Rachel commented.   
     Mack shook his head, "Look above his right eye, there looks to be a scar of some kind."   
     "Identifying mark," Sips commented. "I'd run a check on that."   
     "Also," Rachel piped in, "watch the videotape from before the interview-"   
     "Interrogation," Mack corrected.   
     "Whatever," Rachel said, "Just watch it, and pay attention to his face."   
     As Mack ran a check on all people with scars like the shadow man's, he also watched the videotape prior to the interrogation. The three watched closely as the man's mouth began to move quickly.   
     "What's he saying?"   
     "I don't know Sips," Rachel said, "but watch his hand now, he's acting like someone is beside him, and he's touching him, or her.   
     They watch the shadow man's hand move in a slow stroking motion.   
     "Analysis, Doc?"   
     "Mack, we are dealing with a bona fide nutcase. Schizophrenia with homicidal intentions, possible Multiple Personality Disorder with homicidal intentions. Pick your disorder and add homicidal intentions to it, and it will fit this man almost to a T. Oh, and delusions of granduer."   
     A young man in a white coat walked in, "Mack, we got that blood and hair sample analyzed, and you won't believe the shit we found in this guy's system."   
     "Try me."   
     "Traces of morphine. I-I'm not talking about the street shit either. I'm talking about the pure, medical grade stuff that you get from the hospital and judging by his bloodwork... He had taken a whole cc of morphine at the start of the night."   
     "The point being?"   
     "The point is that should have killed him. You guys shouldn't have even had to deal with him."   
     "Anything else about our painted friend, son?"   
     "Well, Mack, sir, um... he's scarred up. Not normal, scars either, they are cauterized.. uh sealed up with fire."   
     "I know what that is, son."   
     "Okay sir... just... you guys just might want to get another doctor in here to check him out."   
     As the white coat opened the door to leave, a second man ran inside the room, carrying a bundle of papers.   
     "Got the reports on every Ana Mitchell in the area, Mack. There's good news and bad."   
     "Give me the good first."   
     "There's only one."   
     "Bad news?"   
     "She's dead."   
     Mack screamed a line of obscenities as he slammed his fist into the wall.   
     "I could have told you that," the shadow man said softly, his voice heavy with what could have been sorrow. 

-The Past, 1 year and 6 days ago- 

  
     "Thanks for shopping here, hope to see you again."   
     Corey Vincent Michaels held open the door for the customer as she walked out. Closing the door behind her, he grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lit up. He turned the volume on the small radio behind the counter up as loud as it could go and grabbed a broom.   
     Corey never imagined he would have returned to the town he was raised in after being released from drug rehab. In fact, he never thought we would have anywhere to go after being released. His family disowned him, his "friends", fellow drug dealers, gang kids, and drug users like his former self, were either dead or in jail, and the only person that still talked to him, Ana Mitchell, was being kept away by her parents.   
     Corey looked back on the past two years and sighed as he pushed the broom along the floor of the convenience store...   
     Eighteen of those past twenty four months seemed to have been sheer hell, but on occasion he would receive a letter with no return address and a card that have three simple words: "Hang in there". Corey kept each one of those cards.   
     After his release, Corey felt the need to return home, to apologize to those that he had hurt the most. He first went to his family and, during a large dinner that he had cooked for them, asked for their forgiveness.   
     That night, after talking with his family, as he lay in his modest studio apartment's bed, Corey heard a tapping at his window. He looked over from his bed and smiled. Slowly, he walked over and opened the window up.   
     Outside, waiting for him on a tree branch, was Ana Mitchell. The one person that he would ever still talk to.   
     "Hi Corvin," she greeted, crawling along the branch with catlike fluidity. When she was close enough, Corey reached out to her and helped her in the rest of the way.   
     "Hey Ana," he said, "how've you been?"   
     "Pretty good," she answered. Ana smiled, then placed her hands on her hips.   
     "I guess I don't get a hug now that you're back from rehab, huh Corvin?"   
     Corey wrapped his arms around Ana and lifted her up as he slowly spun around. He let her go and she stayed close to him, her arms wrapped around his waist.   
     "I missed you," she whispered.   
    "I missed you too, Ana," Corey replied, running his hand through her long jet black hair, "why'd your parents let you come here at this time?"   
     Ana stepped back and sighed, "They didn't. I sort of ducked out."   
     Corey shook his head and walked over to his bed. Ana followed him and took his hand.   
     "Hey, they were going to keep me from you until you moved again. I wanted to see you before you moved-"   
     "I'm not moving."   
     "What?"   
     "I'm not moving. I'm staying here."   
     "You are?" Ana nearly shouted, "Great!" She lept into his arms and held on as he fell to the bed.   
     She straddled his waist and leaned forward, looking at him with love in her liquid brown eyes.   
     "I'm proud of you Corey," Ana whispered into his ear. He was surprised that she hadn't used his nickname she gave him. "I'm proud that you never let me down. I'm proud that you never gave up."   
     "It was you, Ana," Corey said, running his fingers up her bare arm. He looked up at her as butterflies danced in his stomach.   
    _ Great, the one thing since high school that still stays with you_, he told himself.   
     Corey was about to continue his mental debate when he felt Ana's soft lips against his mouth.   
     "You sent me those letters."   
     "Mm-hmmm. I meant each word I said too. I love you, Corey Vincent Michaels."   
     "I love you too, Ana, but..." Corey trailed off, looking up at her.   
     "But this isn't right?" Ana finished.   
     He nodded, "Not right now."   
     "When?"   
     "Tomorrow and the day after," Corey answered softly. "I get off work at 11:00. From then on, you and I will have the weekend to ourselves." He nibbled gently at her neck and felt her body shiver in pleasure against him.   
     "Will you still let me stay with you tonight?"   
     Corey nodded, "Yeah."   
     He pulled the bed covers up over himself and Ana, then nestled against her and fell asleep. 

  
     For the first time in two years, his sleep was accompanied by dreams. In his dreams, Corey soared over the darkened earth. He felt the wind surrounding him on all sides, taking him higher into the sky.   
     As he flew, Corey looked down below him and saw thousands of tiny fires littering the ground. Corey glided down, feeling the rush of the wind as he cut effortlessly through it. He cocked his head to the side and turned easily to the side, heading towards a tree. He tried to move away from the tree, only to find that his dream-body was gaining speed.   
     _Oh shit I'm going to hit that tree. Oh shit oh shit oh shit!_   
     But he didn't hit the tree. Instead, Corey's dream body took a sharp upwards turn and floated down, only to land gently on a branch.   
     Corey looked around him, only to see thousands of oil-drop eyes staring at him. His dream-eyes became accustomed to the lack of light and he saw a countless number of crows staring back at him, cawing between themselves.   
     Corey blinked, at instantly, his view changed. Now he saw one lone crow on a branch and thousands of other crows advancing towards it, cawing in disgust.   
     "You don't belong," their caws seemed to say, "leave. Now!"   
     Corey watched as the lone crow attacked one nearest it, talons and beak ripping at flesh. In a second, the others were upon the two, attacking just as mercilessly. Corey couldn't help but watch, no matter how hard he tried to look away. He couldn't block out the all-too-human screams of pain the two crows let loose as their bodies were ripped apart.   
     As quickly as it had started, the slaughter was over. Nothing was left of the two crows except for a few bloody feathers and the odd bone here and there... 

  
     Corey snapped out of his daze when the buzzer on the door sounded off. He looked up and saw Ana, dressed in a knee-length raincoat, walk in from the night.   
     "It's 12:30, Corey," she whispered, "you okay?"   
     "Mm-hmm," he answered, "I was just thinking."   
     "About what?"   
     "The past. And the new guy being late."   
     "Really," Ana said as she walked around him, trailing her fingers around his body. "You know, people that dwell on the past are said to be afraid of their own future."   
     "That's crap."   
     "Why do you say that, O wise burn-out?" Ana asked teasingly.   
     "Because then everyone that took history classes would be afraid of thier future."   
     "You got a point there," Ana said softly. "Now, put the broom down and kiss me."   
     Corey let the broom fall to the floor as he lifted Ana up and kissed her softly. He carried her to the office of the store and set her down in a chair.   
     "I've waited for you, Corvin," Ana whispered. "I've wanted my first time to be with you." Corey stopped for a second, his head cocked to the side.   
     "Your... your first time?"   
     Ana nodded and wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, "Yes, and I want it to be special, with you. I love you."   
     "I love you too Ana," Corey said, kissing her along her jawline. He runs his hands over her body and sucks tenderly on her neck.   
     The two lovers' encounter was cut short by the door buzzer sounding off again and three voices shouting as loud as possible.   
     "Ohhhh shit," Corey sighed. He kissed Ana just below her collarbone, "I'll be right back, hold that thought."   
     Ana shivered beneath the raincoat and pulled it tighter around her naked body. She whistled softly and quickly spread her legs when Corey turned around.   
     "Nice view," he choked out, his face red with embarrassment.   
     Corey walked out of the office and looked at the three people that just walked in. Deep inside, a voice told him to call the police. Closer to the surface, was the voice of a businessman's son that said, 'Get as much money out of them as you can.'   
     "Can I help you guys?" he asked. None of the three took any notice to him, not the gangly blonde one pulling cases of beer out of the freezer, not the tan, black-haired man in a wife beater t-shirt stuffing candy into his pockets, not even the short, stocky brunette trying on sunglasses.   
     Finally, the blonde looked up, "You got any Coors?" He kept one hand behind his back, moving it up and down.   
     "No man, sorry, all out," Corey answered. "Only got Miller and Budweiser." The blonde man nodded and swung his hand around as he turned back to the freezer.   
     The short man walked up to the counter, a pair of imitation Ray-Ban's on his face, "I want these."   
     "Ten sixty-nine, my man," Corey said, hitting a few quick buttons. The man threw Corey a hundred dollar bill and walked out. The tan man and the blonde looked up and towards the door, then nodded.   
     The blonde man walked up and set two cases of beer on the countertop.   
     "How's your night been?" Corey asked.   
     "Pretty good. How 'bout yours?" the blonde man said.   
     "Fairly well. Got a hot girl waiting for me to get off shift."   
     "So you can't wait to get off, huh?" Blondie said softly, keeping one hand behind his back. Corey nodded his head in agreement and bent down to grab a paper bag. He heard the unmistakeable sound of a gun cocking and rose back up.   
     "All the money in this place," the blonde man said, "give it to me. NOW!"   
     Corey slowly opened the register and started pulling out bills. He made a grab for a five dollar bill clamped to an alarm and felt the barrel of the gun get placed against his temple.   
     "If you pull that bill out, I'll spray your brains all over this goddamn store, got that, kid?"   
     Corey nodded and slowly took his hand off the bill.   
     "The safe. Open it."   
     "I can't."   
     "Yes you can."   
     "It's on a time lock. I can't open it for another five more hours."   
     "Rico! Get the fuck over here!"   
     The man in the wife-beater walked up, "What's up?"   
     "Punch this motherfucker in the face for not doin' what I say, then get that goddamn safe open."   
     The tan man popped his neck loose, then let fly with a quick jab. Corey's head snapped back from the impact and he barely had time to catch himself from falling. Corey watched the tan man walk around the counter. Corey waited until the man was close enough, then leaped on top of him, fists pounding on flesh. 


End file.
